


Nightmares

by alphaplease



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, BAMF Stiles, F/M, Hurt Stiles, Kidnapping, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Leaves, Stiles-centric, Tattooed Stiles, Tattoos, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:22:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1280962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphaplease/pseuds/alphaplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end it's no surprise to Stiles that he's alone when they take him. He's been abandoned by his best friend, outlived his usefulness, and he sure as hell is not pack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles is kidnapped by hunters and tortured. Set after season 2 (though Erica and Boyd were never taken by the Alphas). Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine. More chapters to come.  
> /Please note, this is not complete yet. I intend to finish this story though, so don't fear!/

When they take Stiles, he puts up very little fight (though that might be from the mild concussion resulting from the bashing his head took just a few moments ago). He assumes that they're hunters, judging by their black clothes, wielded guns, and the dark SUV they're currently stuffing him in to (and really, predictable much?), but other than muffled voices and sparks of pain resonating from his head, not much else is clear.

Why the hunters chose to take him, he's not altogether sure. Stiles isn't precious to the pack, hasn't heard or seen them other than the distracted waves he gets from Scott in the cafeteria every other day, Allison pulling him along with a twinkle in her eye and a dimpled smile.

In the end it's no surprise to Stiles that he's alone when they take him. He's been abandoned by his best friend, outlived his usefulness to the wolves, and he sure as hell is not pack.

What does surprise him though is that he is the one kidnapped. Obviously these hunters have no clue how this pack works if they think he is valuable to them. Stiles snorts at that, and the two hunters in the SUV turn to glare at him. He puts his hands up in an innocent gesture, though the effort involved sends his head reeling, and for a horrible second he thinks he's going to throw up.

After the nausea rolls over, Stiles sits quiet, dozing off numerous times before he snaps himself out of it. He tries to distract himself, mind thinking back to where he was taken. Parking lot of the grocery, and wow isn't that a bit sad. He realizes then that he left his jeep open, groceries strewn across the pavement from where he dropped them. He hopes with half his pain hazed mind that the mess he made was cleaned up, if only to save the heartache this will cause his dad, the other half of him selfishly wishing for him to find Stiles, to save him.

After what feels like hours, the car finally stops, cutting of with a rumble. Stiles is picked up by the scrap of his hoodie, thrown out of the car and onto the pavement. Stiles turns his head to glare at the hunters, only to be forced to his feet by a rough pull on his arm, and dragged into what looks to be a small abandoned house.

Stiles is shoved forward into the house when he quickly turns to make a break for it, foot reaching out to trip the hunter now in front of him. His efforts, however, are cut off by an effective knockout blow to the head.

* * *

 

When Stiles wakes up, it's to a dull throbbing in his head, his hands and feet bound to a wooden chair. Looking around, he notices a staircase leading up to a metal door, though no windows.

He groans at the lack of escape routes, and the noise echoes around the room. There's a slam of a door from upstairs, and Stiles quickly closes his eyes, feigning sleep as the door leading down into what Stiles is pretty sure is a cellar opens.

The clamor of feet on the stairs is enough to make him nervous, the realization of what he's actually here for sinking in. His breathing shortens, the sound of him pulling in air rough against his own ears, and he knows they know he's awake

"Come now, Stiles. It is Stiles, isn't it?" asks a deep voice dripping with malicious intent. "There really is no point in pretending you're asleep."

Stiles opens his eyes to look at the person in front of him. He looks to be in his mid 20's, wearing a twisted grin and holding what appears to be a carving knife. Stiles roles his eyes and glances at the knife before responding.

"So you do know who I am. Good for you. What do you want?" he snarks with false confidence, pretending his voice didn't crack halfway through.

The hunter smirks, hand running along the edge of the blade as if he were caressing a treasured item.

"I think you already know," he replies, eyes flickering from Stiles' face to the knife glinting in his hand. "Where are the mutts living?"

Stiles closes his eyes, letting out a ragged breath, before replying. "I don't know."

The hunter smirks, and before Stiles can blink, there's a line carved into his leg, slowing weeping blood. The pain hits him and his head slumps forward, a scream struggling to get out of his clenched mouth.

Stiles opens his eyes, tilting his head up, not daring to look down at his thigh.

"Let's not play coy, Stiles," the hunter tuts, "you give me the information, and I'll let you go."

"Right," Stiles mutters, glancing around the room again, looking anywhere but at the other man.

"Okay, so let's try that again. Who's in your pack?" The words are said slowly, deliberately, and Stiles wonders if they realize they've got the wrong person, because Stiles? He's not pack.

"I'm not part of any pack," Stiles relays his thoughts. The backhand across his face comes as no surprise, and this time Stiles does let out a harsh cry, the sound loud in the closed off room.

"Answer me!" the hunter growls, eyes bright with anger. Stiles shakes his head a fraction, and then lowers his head, determined to ignore the other man.

The hunter asks more questions, each one ignored by Stiles, until he gives up with the string of unanswered questions, instead resolving to torturing a response out of the boy, slicing line after line, deep into Stiles' thigh. 

Each cut engraved into his thigh is another nightmare plastering itself to Stiles' mind, and he realizes that he's not getting out of here, not alive.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the kudos and bookmarks guys. This chapter is set right after the previous. As said before, unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine.

Stiles isn't sure if he passed out, or if his mind just went hazy, but he's smacked back into reality by a bucket of freezing water. He sputters, throat scratchy and rough from what feels like days of screaming, and his eyes sting, the cold water a sharp shock to his tired eyes.

Stiles tilts his head to the side, coughing out red, and grimaces. The hunter snaps his fingers in front of Stiles, and Stiles flinches, sending waves of pain pulsing from his mutilated legs that he was trying to forget about (he won't forget about it, the wide jagged cuts painting his legs that will turn to ugly scars will remind him every single day).

He glances up, and notices with a detached sense of interest that it's a different hunter to the first. This hunter looks older, worn around the edges, his entire being radiating poorly-repressed anger. Just looking at him gives Stiles a sense of hopelessness, further sinking in with every word that exits the hunters mouth.

"Mornin' sleepy," the hunter says, baring his teeth at Stiles, eyes gleaming. "So I heard you gave Ryan a bit of a hard time last night."

Stiles blinks, head shaking slightly. He knows what's coming, another round of agonizing pain for answers he'd never dare spill, even if the ones he's protecting probably haven't even noticed he's gone. The hunter continues talking, not bothering to look as Stiles.

"I have a, well, a more interesting method to get you to communicate," he drawls, hands sweeping over a table, items a dull silver blur to Stiles' aching eyes.

The hunter picks up a scalpel and shifts it from hand to hand, testing the weight. He nods his head, cracking his neck, and in one swift movement, plunges the entire head of the blade into the meat of Stiles stomach.

Stiles doesn't scream, he doesn't the energy to, but the gasp of pain he let's out it ragged, sharp, and tears prick at his eyes.

Eyes watering, Stiles breathes in deep, ignoring the metal that seems to be digging in deeper every breath he takes. He glares at the hunter, a false front of confidence, and the hunter smirks, leaning over to pick up a new item.

"Oh Stiles, don't look at me like that," the hunter laughs, "the fun hasn't even started yet." 

He reaches over with his free hand, taking the handle of the scalpel, and twists. Stiles whimpers, hands clutching at thin air before clenching into fists, and he tries to back into the chair though he knows he can't get away.

After three twists, the blade is pulled out, the hole it caused now jagged and bleeding, a steady stream of red pouring out.

"Now that's out of the way. Questions. Let's start with something easy, hm?" the hunter turns to drop the scalpel onto the table, and lifts up his new item to Stiles' hazed eyes.

Stiles eyes widen with fear, his breathing shortening until its all he can do to get a small sliver of oxygen pass the panic blocking his airways.

The hunter snickers at Stiles' response to the small blow torch in his hand, and he flicks the switch on and off, watching Stiles trying to claw at the ropes biding him to escape, get away.

"Here's where the agony really starts for you. I think I'll start with that nasty wound in your stomach, hey? We don't want that getting infected. And then for every question you don't answer, or for every answer you lie about, I'll burn a different section of your skin. That sounds fair, don't you think?" the hunter asks, thumb rubbing over the switch.

The hunter continues to talk, squatting down to look Stiles in the eye, narrowing his own till Stiles can only see a small bit of white. "How many are there in your pack."

"I don't have a pack," Stiles bites out, voice weak to his own ears, and the hunter smiles, a sick twisted imitation of happiness, and slowly pets the blow torch.

"What a shame," the hunter says, forcefully ripping the cloth off from around the gash in his stomach and bringing the head of the torch level, "to have to damage such a fragile human."

The torch is switched on, millimeters away from Stiles' skin, and Stiles spasms, the heat pressing into his all-too-human skin a thousand shades of agonizing. He tries to scream, though it comes out more of a hoarse, broken cry.

Stiles' back arches from the pain, only bringing his body closer to the flame, and he tries to jerk back. The scent of burning flesh is strong in the air, overpowering even to Stiles' human nose, and he gags, coughing up the little food in his stomach onto the floor.

The torch clicks off, the flame disappearing, though the burning sensation playing out on Stiles' skin still raged on. The hunter smirks, tapping the head of the blow torch against the singed skin, each hit sending another flare of pain through Stiles.

"Want to try that again?" the hunter inquires, though going by the leer that seems ingrained on his face, he knows Stiles isn't going to tell him anything.

Stiles doesn't answer, instead opting to keep his head down, mouth shut, trying to breathe in as much oxygen as he can before the taste of burning flesh becomes too much. The hunter turns to look at him, and shakes his head slightly, before clicking on the blow torch and going for a new spot on his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be trying to update as regularly as possible!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the late update, I had an influx of tests and I think I cried from all the stress (it happens). Please enjoy (or cry for Stiles, either one works). I'm sorry the chapters so short, but I wanted to get a chapter done and online. I'll be updating asap!

It felt like years had past, when in reality, it had only been about 5 days, a week tops. Every hour Stiles was in the cellar seemed to drag, and time was catagorized into 'being tortured' and 'waiting to be tortured'.

Stiles had given up on ever being found, the sense of hopelessness the only real emotion Stiles could deal with. That and anger. Lots of anger. Anger for himself for being to stupid as to get caught. Anger at the hunters torturing him for their sick pleasure after long ago realising Stiles wasn't giving them any information. But mostly, anger towards the pack. It burned in his veins, a constant question rattling around his brain. 

Why hadn't they found him?

It was in his time, waiting for the next session of agony to arrive, that he made a promise to himself. A promise that if he ever got out of this hell hole, he'd keep the hell away from the pack, or they'd get a sample of the hell he's living every second. A promise to learn how to defend himself, to not be a liability. And above all, a promise to himself to never forgive, to never forget how little he obviously meant to them, that he could be tossed aside so easily, forgotten, hell, _tortured,_ without them noticing.

It's also in his time waiting that he worries. He worries mostly for his father, the only person left in his life who actually cares about Stiles. Stiles is all he has left, and his father is probably going mad with grief, making himself sick with the effort he's putting in to find Stiles.

Stiles doesn't let himself think that his father isn't looking for him, because he has to be. He needs to hold onto the thought of someone looking for him, caring if he returns dead or alive.

He's disrupted from his thoughts by the first hunter, Ryan, thudding down the stairs, smiling smugly like he knows something Stiles doesn't, which is highly likely considering Stiles has been stuck down in a cellar, getting next to no food and water, going slightly crazy from dehydration.

Ryan has his eyes on his knifes, spread out over one of the benches littering the room, and he looks down at Stiles looking at the knives, and smirks. He wonders over to them, hand swirling over the top of them and selecting one at random. He looks at it, smiling, before turning to face Stiles.

"So, where should we start on today? We can't do your legs, they're looking a bit worse for wear, don't you think? Your arms look pretty mangled as well," he laughs, tilting his head back as if savouring the memory of his last session, slicing line after line into Stiles shoulder all the way down to his wrist, then taking the knife from the web of his fingers up along his hand to meet the rest of the marks.,

Stiles looks down at the gashes on his arms, a wave of nausea rolling over him, Ryan's voice blurred in the background.

"Oh, I know!" the hunter says, voice filled with sick glee, and hits Stiles across the face to get his attention. The slap split Stiles lip again, and Stiles turns his head to the hunter. Ryan brings up the small, razor sharp blade he selected, and, taking Stiles head roughly in his hand, slowly draws a thin line down the left side of Stiles face.

"Please," Stiles rasps, the first words he's said in 5 days, and they sound weak, defeated. The hunter laughs, looking down at the thin red line marking Stiles face, before taking the knife and pushing it down over the right side of his face at an angle, just missing his eye. The blood wells up, dripping down his face, and Stiles lets out a small cry. Ryan laughs again, the cruel sound grating against Stiles ears.

"Oh dear, was I a bit harsh? Should we try somewhere else, then? Or maybe with something else?" the hunter questions, and turns his back, before swinging around, a metal rod in his hand.

Stiles' stomach drops at the new item, because dear god he knows what that is. Ryan brings it closer, twirling it through his fingers, and Stiles shakes his head, eyes wide with alarm.

The cattle prod is brandished in front of his face, taunting him, before Ryan swings it out and presses it into Stiles stomach. Stiles can do little more that gasp, his body seizing, hands clenched so tight that moon-shaped indents are left from his nails biting into his palm. The prod is moved off his skin, and Stiles lets out a sigh, before seizing up again as the prod is shoved against his left side.

It's ongoing, and Stiles feels as if time has stopped, that the only thing left that he could feel was the electricity seizing his body. 

And it's when Ryan finally leaves, muttering about lunch and how torturing really gives him an appetite, that Stiles lets himself go. It's with his head hung low, small whimpers clawing their way out of his throat, that Stiles finally cries.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos are absolutely awesome and make me enjoy writing even more, so thanks. This is the chapter we've been waiting for, unbeta'd as always.

Stiles not sure what's real anymore, or if everything he's seeing is a figment of his imagination. He is going crazy, mind numb and swirling, a blank contrast to the pain and horror of what's present on his mutilated skin. The state of his body varies, from the cuts marring his face, arms, legs, and even his hands, to the burns littering his stomach and chest, to the bruises scattered around his body, a result from the cattle prod and the numerous beatings added in-between.

Stiles gave up on the hunters ever stopping. They got a sick rush from torturing a young boy, barely even 18, and Stiles wonders if they ever even wanted him for information.

Stiles realised that really, he just wanted die. It hurts him to even think it, but after what he's had to live through the last two weeks, it's a wonder he's even breathing.

He knows it will hurt his dad, but just thinking about how he'd find Stiles, if he ever did, at seeing the state in which Stiles is in, well that would probably kill him. Because Stiles knows his dad will blame himself, would end up losing himself in the bottom of a bottle of jack to try drown the sorrow and the ever-pressing guilt that he let this happen, he didn't find Stiles in time, that he let his baby boy get tortured.

Stiles hopes it's the pack that find him, alive or dead, just so they can see what they caused. He tries to feel bad about that, but he can't find it in himself to care. It's as if the old Stiles, the pre-torture Stiles, is completely dead, drained out through the gashes in his skin, escaping through the smoke from his burns, until all that was left was a husk of the former boy.

The torture sessions are ongoing, the hunters relentless, always testing Stiles' boundaries. Stiles stops trying to talk, stops trying to beg them to stop, please, I can't stand anymore, but nothing ever works.

It's the morning of the day marking two weeks since Stiles' kidnapping that he is found.

When it does happen, when Stiles finally is found, he thinks he's hallucinating. There's a fierce howl, echoed by others, and things crashing up stairs. Stiles doesn't dare hope.

But when the cellar door opens, and Derek's there, Stiles lets out a sob of relief, staring anywhere else but the angry red of the Alpha's eyes.

Derek looks haunted, eyes flying across Stiles' body, taking in every single detail, and lets out a small whine. He crosses over to Stiles, and Stiles flinches back. Derek moves slower, hands reaching out slowly to free Stiles from his confines.

When he finally undoes the ropes binding Stiles from the chair, Stiles realises he can't move. He doesn't have the energy, can only turn to star accusingly at Derek.

A wave of fatigue hits Stiles, and he slumps forwards in Derek's arms. Before he passes out though, he mutters out the first words the pack has heard from Stiles in two weeks.

"Your fault."

* * *

It takes a day before Stiles is conscious enough to understand that he's no longer in the cellar, that he's been rescued. The feeling of a soft mattress underneath him, pillows propping up his head, is foreign, such comforts forgotten in the last 2 weeks.

He doesn't open his eyes, the light pressing against them already painful. He can hear a contant beeping in the background, and realises with a detached sense of interest that he's in hospital.

He turns his head to the side, the simple movement causing pain to spark up his body, and he lets out a small whine. Someone hesitantly clutches his hand in theirs.

"Stiles? Stiles!" comes his fathers worried voice, and Stiles feels a stab of guilt go through him. He never wanted his father to see him like this, so broken.

He tries to talk, to tell him how sorry he is, that he never meant to get caught, but all that comes out are strangled whimpers. He's shushed by his father.

"Don't-" his father starts, before cutting out, voice full of emotion. "Don't try talk, just, just sleep, okay? You're safe now."

Stiles tries to nod, already slipping from consciousness, the press of sleep overcoming him.

* * *

 

He's back in the cellar, Ryan smirking over him, and Stiles thinks he's going to be sick.

It's so much worse, though. Because behind the hunter is the pack, and they're just standing there, watching. None of them make a move towards him when Ryan lifts up his favourite knife, and none of them blink when Ryan slashes it down along Stiles' chest, Stiles scream echoing out through the cellar.

The hunter chuckles, turning to look behind at the pack, before facing Stiles, and shrugging. "You know they never cared, so why are you expecting something from them now?"

Stiles feels like he's dying, the blood slowly pouring from the wound in his chest, and is helpless to do anything but watch Ryan walking up slowly, bringing the blade level to his heart and plunging-.

Stiles lurches up in the hospital bed, breathing erratically, and everything hurts, everything hurts so much.

He's whipping his head around at the light touch on his arm, teeth bared and hair wild.

"Stiles! Stiles, please! It's okay, you're here, you're safe. Stiles!" comes his dad's voice, and the fear his father is projecting is what brings him out of the dream.

He tries to get his breathing under control, counting in his head, before looking up into his dads eyes. Stiles feels like he failed him, and the weight of it is crushing.

Slowly, watching Stiles' reaction, the sheriff brings his arms up, and closes them loosely around Stiles, careful not to bump any of the stark white bandages covering almost every inch of Stiles' skin.

Although it was a dream, Stiles can still feel the phantom sting of the knife across his chest. He ignores it, and leans against his father, breathing in against his fathers shoulder, the familiar smell of home comforting him.

It's okay, he tells himself. It's okay, you're safe now, but he knows that it's a lie.

He doubts he'll ever feel safe again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will deal with the Stiles and the pack, so make sure you have a box of tissues with you.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you know that I never said a word? Not one. I'm starting to wonder why I held on, why I didn't say anything. I guess I was just hoping you'd find me, in the beginning. I gave up on that long ago. And now I've given up on you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thankyou for all the feedback, I'm so glad you guys are still liking it. I was worried after the first chapter or two that people would lose interest, and instead, I'm getting positive comments and it's totally awesome.
> 
> Sorry this chapter is a bit later than usual, but it's longer, so hopefully that makes up for the wait.  
> I've only ran over it a couple times in haste to get it published, so if there are any mistakes (I'm sure there will be heaps) please point them out to me. 
> 
> Special thanks to Cailin and Maddie who've read over the last few chapters and basically told me to post the new chapters when I haven't really wanted to.

After a week of recovery, he's allowed guests. He pleads with his dad to keep everyone out, that no, really, I just want to rest, and it works for a few days, until one night he wakes up to see almost all the pack lining the walls of his room, his dads chair suspiciously empty.

"Stiles, you're awake!" Scott smiles, making to move forward, and Stiles flinches back.

Scott's features fall, and he pauses in his movement. Stiles' face is blank, all emotions wiped off the minute he saw who was in his room.

"What do you want?" Stiles asks them, voice filled with barely suppressed rage. The look they give him in return is shocked, as if they can't believe he's even asking.

"What do you mean what do we want? We wanted to make sure you were okay! You're our friend, my best friend, why wouldn't we be here!" Scott responded, looking offended.

"You're my friend? You think 'friends' don't realise for weeks that the other has been taken, that they're missing? How long did it take you to notice, hmm? Five days, maybe even a week? How long till you even thought of me?" Stiles voice is steadily getting louder, emotion slipping through the cracks in his face, tears welling in his eyes.

"I-, Stiles," Scott starts, but Stiles cuts him off, staring at all of them.

"How long did it take for you to notice I was gone, Scott?"

"Stiles, we-." Scott starts, but Stiles cuts him off.

"How long?" Stiles voice is trembling, loud but not loud enough to draw attention. The guilty look the pack gives him tells him everything.

"Get out," he says, voice deadly cold, distant. The pack look at each other, conversing through their facial expressions, before turning back to face him. They don't make to move, completely ignoring him, and Stiles can't look at them anymore.

He makes to shout, drawing in a lungful of air, before Scott cuts him off.

"We did look for you, of course we did! We just thought you were sick, and you never want to sit with us anymore. I mean, you can't blame us for not jumping to the conclusion that you were kidnaped straight away. Anyway, by the time we realised, your scent was gone. It's not our fault."

It's with those comments that Stiles sees red. He stares at them incredulously, and he can't even process what he's hearing.

"Not your fault? How the hell is this not your fault? Why do you think I was kidnapped?! I was taken because they wanted information about you!" Stiles exclaims, eyes bright with anger. Stiles barrels on, words spilling out of his mouth that he can't stop.

"I loved you guys, I gave you guys everything, and look where that got me! I'm mutilated, a disfigured freak, stuck with people who couldn't give two shits that I went missing for 2 weeks, that I was tortured, burnt, cut open!" Stiles shouts, holding up a bandaged hand when one of them went to step forward.

"Do you know that I never said a word? Not one. I'm starting to wonder why I held on, why I didn't say anything. I guess i was just hoping you'd find me, in the beginning. I gave up on that long ago. And now I've given up on you." Stiles said.

Scott steps closer, raising up a hand to put on Stiles' shoulder, and Stiles turns to glare at him.

"Stay the hell away from me," he said, voice deadly quiet, a contrast to the shouting just moments ago. "All of you. Don't think I won't hurt you if you come near me, I've been through a lot worse than 'losing' friends I lost a long time ago."

The pack just stands there, looking at him with lost expressions, and he can't stand it.

"Get out! Get the hell out! Leave me alone!" he all but screams, thrashing in his bed, and one of the monitors falls over, triggering the call button for the nurse. 

They quickly leave after his freakout, most not giving a backwards glance, except Derek, who turns around, and looks him in the eye.

"I'm sorry."

And with that he leaves, and the nurse comes bustling in, cursing under her breath.

* * *

 

A few weeks after the pack's visit, Stiles is allowed out of hospital, piled down with pain tablets and anti-anxiety tablets and more therapist cards than he knows what to do with.

When he finally gets home, his dad's hand carefully resting on his shoulder, he realises that he can't stay in Beacon Hills. Just looking at the photos of Scott and him in the hall, their dorky smiles flashing out at him, brings a wave of panic running through him, telling him that he's not safe, he's never safe.

With a quick word of reassurance to his father that yes, I'm okay, no, I'm not going to have a panic attack, Stiles climbs up the stairs to his room and sits on his bed.

He feels sick, looking around at his stuff, a reminder of how he was, of how broken he is now. All the trivial stuff that seemed so important lining his shelves act as a reminder, and he can't look at them.

Lifting himself off the bed, he goes to his closet, grabbing out the biggest bag he can find, and starts pulling out clothes that are sizes too big from all the weight he lost whilst held captive. After that he goes to his bookshelf, pulling down texts books and note books and throws them in, skipping over the comics, fingers sliding past them.

When his bag is almost packed, he hears a rattle at the window, and jerks around, the sudden movement pulling on the wounds not yet healed. He lets out a hiss of pain, reaching over and sliding open the curtain to reveal a glaring Derek Hale.

Stiles looks at him, Derek glaring right back, until he turns away, and the rattling starts again.

"It's locked, genius," Stiles says, rolling his eyes, and he doesn't bother raise his voice, knowing Derek can hear him. "Also, there's a line of mountain ash, gives it an extra layer of protection against the furries."

Derek continues to stare, and Stiles sighs, reaching over to pull up the window, smirking when Derek tries to climb through and is held back by the line of ash

"What are you doing, Stiles," Derek asks, head motioning towards the bag Stiles has lying open on his bed, contents spilling out.

Stiles raises his eyebrows, and Derek scowls, rephrasing his question.

"Why are you doing this?"

Stiles looks over at the bag, then runs his eyes down his body, at the jeans and long sleeved t-shirt covering the thin white and jagged red scars, the burnt patches of skin littering his body, and looks back at Derek.

A look of understanding washes over Derek just as Stiles reaches over to close the window shut, redrawing the curtains. He can feel the weight of Derek's look as he turns his back to the window, sinking down into the bed.

He rests his head in his hands, just breathing. In, out. In, out. 

After five minutes he's got his breath back, and he reaches over to the bag, zipping it shut and lifting it up carefully. He paces down the stairs and goes into the kitchen where his father's attempting to cook something on the pan, though judging by the grimace he's sporting, it's quite unsuccessful.

The sheriff raises his eyes when he hears Stiles enter the kitchen. He takes in the look on Stiles’ face, eyes then drifting to the bag leaning on the ground, straps held loosely in Stiles’ grip. His heart breaks at the lost expression Stiles wears, and he feels like crying at the way Stiles flexes his hand, at how Stiles is still not able to lift something without causing himself pain.

He looks up into Stiles' eyes, and seeing the sense of defeat in there, he knows that he needs to help Stiles, do whatever his boy needs to get over this, to get over the horror inflicted on his body and mind. With a heavy heart, the sheriff reaches over and lifts the bag from Stiles' lose grip and heaves it onto his shoulders. He pulls Stiles into a hug, murmuring into his sons' shoulder.

"What do you need me to do?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just letting you know now that the next chapter will probably be set a year or several ahead of the last few chapters (or at least skip a significant amount of time!)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long to update. I had most of the chapter done but some parts just didn’t want to be written. Also, stuff happened (as it always does), but I have a small holiday so hopefully I can get a few more chapters done.  
> This chapter is set 3 years after the last, and all season 3 events never occurred.  
> It’s also about 3 times longer than the others, and I drew a picture during my writer’s block of Stiles all tatted up (you can find that here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1477621) so I hope that makes up for the wait!  
> Please enjoy (or don’t, it’s not really up to me), thanks for the continued support.

It's been 3 years since Stiles has seen or heard from the pack, 3 years since he left Beacon Hills. It's been over 3 weeks since he'd even heard from his dad, let alone the half a year it's been since he'd seen him.

Stiles had left, moved almost halfway across the globe to England, the only place he could go to get away from Beacon Hills. And the time away was the best thing he ever did for himself. He's grown surer of himself, and he's wiser, stronger, powerful.

The move was sudden, Stiles leaving before the pack had even an inkling he was leaving. Transfer papers for school were done from the other side of the globe, his dad helping him along with the move.

For the end of high school, he lived with a distant relative, an aunt from his mothers side who was all too happy to take Stiles after the events he went through in Beacon Hills.

Stiles told his dad, after settling into his new life, about the last few years of his life, about the supernatural fuckery he'd been living in. He'd had to stop his dad from flying home and shooting down the wolves himself. The weight of the massive secret burdening him lifted off his shoulders was worth every uttered threat that left his fathers lips.

The difference of small town life where everybody seemed to know everybody to busy city life where no one looked twice at you was refreshing to Stiles.

He was scarred, his arms and legs, hell, his whole body, mutilated but healing, and having people who hadn't known him his whole life, who didn't look at him with pity when they thought he couldn't see him, was an added bonus to escaping the small suffocating town of Beacon Hills.

In his new home, he knew no one. When he was healed enough, walking unaided with only jolts of pain from his scars a reminder of his body’s condition, he started up at school, finishing the last semester of high school before exams. He was treated differently in the new school, a new American student with a mysterious background. No-one knew of his kidnapping, the evidence covered by long sleeves and jeans, and he quickly made friends, many people warming up to him in a way no-one seemed to back home.

Everything was normal. It was weird for Stiles, always expecting the new creature of the week to jump out. He still had nightmares, those never left, but he got better. He stopped flinching at sudden movements, was able to look at a burning flame or a simple butter knife without having a panic attack, flashbacks no longer leaving him breathless.

He finished off high school, graduating at the top of his class. His father came over for his graduation, watched him walk across and accept his certificate, clapping along with every parent.

When he finished high school, though, Stiles doesn't know where to turn next. He never really thought that far ahead, always keeping his head in the present to stay out of danger. Honestly speaking, he never though he’d make it past 17.

When he was younger, all he wanted to do was follow in his father’s footsteps, beat the baddies and be the hero. It was after pondering over the courses offered online that he realised that there still wasn’t anything else he did want to do.

Finishing at the top of his class, he was offered many scholarships, and accepted one at a college closer to his new home, studying criminal investigation.

It wasn’t until college that Stiles started to find his old self again. The cuts faded to white lines, the burns still dark on his pale skin, but lightening. He let his hair grow out, part of it covering the scar on his face. He changed clothing, growing surer of himself, going from baggy plaid to tight shirts and jeans. He got a piercing in his lip, even, and finally started wearing his glasses he never had the time to get.

Everything was going perfect for Stiles. He had a new life, one where people loved him for who he was, not for what he wasn't. He loved his new home, the people, all the tiny points, but nothing could stop him from missing Beacon Hills. Not the supernatural side, but small aspects, like his jeep, the deputies at the station, his comic book collection. Mostly, he just missed his father. They slowly lost contact, never completely, but it cut from the once daily to weekly, then monthly, breaking Stiles’ heart in the process.

Stiles often thought back on Beacon Hills, not only about the people there, but also about why he left. He knew he couldn't handle the supernatural life, the way he was so fragile, so human in comparison to the people surrounding him. He never felt safe, protected, because everyone he knew didn't think about Stiles, about how he's breakable and unsafe and _doesn’t heal._

He also thought about the pack. For the first year, any thoughts of them left Stiles with a bitter taste in his mouth. He hated them for a long time, when he left. He hated that they didn't care, that they didn't save him, but after a while, he realised that he needed to get over it. His hatred for the pack held him back, leaving him closed off and distant from almost everyone he met, but slowly, over time, it began to fade. Stiles never forgave them, but in the time he was gone, he lost the intense hatred left in his heart for the pack after his rescuing.

He made new friends in his courses at university, dated girls and guys, studied his ass off. It was in his second week of college, though, that his whole life changed.

He was leaving his class, on the way to pick up a desperately needed coffee, when he was thrown against a wall in one of the less frequently used corridors. He coughed, turning to glare at the person shoving him, and blinked.

Bright blue eyes shone back at him, the owner of said eyes growling at him, teeth extended.

Stiles gulped and tried to shimmy out of the grip the werewolf had on his neck, only to have the fingers close tighter around.

“Who are you,” came a growled question, words warped by the teeth, “and where is your pack.”

Stiles stared at the wolf, mouth open with no words coming out. When the wolf started closing his hands tighter around Stiles throat, he managed to shake the shock, rambling off an answer.

“I don’t have a pack. I’m human. One hundred and ten percent fragile bones and skin. No aggressive side burns or pointy teeth,” Stiles stumbled out, and he felt the grip on him loosen.

“Why do you smell of another pack,” the wolf asks, leaning in to sniff at Stiles neck, and whoa, uncomfortable.

“Hey buddy, would you mind cutting back on the sniffing?” Stiles asks, ignoring the question. “I’ve had enough of that to last me a lifetime and a half and I don’t really like your kind, to be honest.”

The werewolf stares at him, face human again except for the glowing blue eyes. He looks Stiles over and nods, before grabbing Stiles hand and pulling him along. Stiles lets out a jumbled yell, one hand fumbling to reach into his back pocket which holds a small capsule of mountain ash he never leaves without, and trips for his efforts. The werewolf snorts, and Stiles pulls up short, jolting when the other man continues to pull at his arm.

“What do you want?” Stiles asks. “I really don’t fancy the manhandling.”

“You’re coming with me. Trespassing on another packs’ land without permission of the alpha when you belong to another pack was really stupid, even for a human.”

“But I told you, I don’t have a pack! I'm human!” Stiles half shouts back, and takes satisfaction in the resulting wince it pulls from the wolf.

“Tell that to my alpha,” the wolf responds, smirking when the blood drains from Stiles’ face.

* * *

 

The house Stiles' brought to reminded him of the old Hale house, pre-fire. The large arch windows allowed light to spill out onto the floors, giving the home a large, spacious feel. When he passed (was shoved) through the door, he felt several sets of piercing eyes fall on him and he straightened his back, walking forward.

They got to what he assumed was the lounge, several people were lying around on the couches that sat up straight as they entered the room.

"Alpha," the beta wolf bared his neck, before pushing Stiles infront of him. "Found this one at the campus, says he hasn't got a pack. He smells of wolf, though."

A tall, brunette women, perhaps in her late 40's, steps forward, and leans across, sniffing at his neck. Wow, barriers really aren't a thing to werewolves.

She stills, then pulls back, eyes red, and Stiles gulps. He has a hand around the mountain ash pill now, just waiting for one of the wolves to give him a reason to use it, his only mode of defence against the supernatural.

The Alpha makes a flick motion with her hand, and Stiles sees one of the betas in the corner of his eye move. He splits the capsule open, hoping it will work, please let it work. He opens eyes he didn't realise were close to see the Alpha staring at him, an eyebrow raised.

She looks him over as the other werewolf had, then at the wolf standing just outside his circle, before looking up at his face.

"Facinating," she says, and and motions for the wolves to back off. "You didn't tell me you'd brought a spark, Brendan."

The other wolf blinked, before turning to face Stiles, and wait, what did she call him?

"What," Stiles says, and the alphas' eyebrows ascend further up her forehead.

"Astonishing," she mummers, before pausing, as if thinking over something. "I've never seen someone actually form a mountain ash line before. Quite rare, did you know? How would you like to learn to control that spark?"

"You've lost me," Stiles blinks, and he hears the alpha snort. He turns to glare at her, but sees her staring straight at him.

"Your. Spark," she reiterates, and that sparks ( _heh_ ) a memory from before, back in Beacon Hills, Deaton telling him of magic, powers above and beyond that of a werewolf, and he realises just what's being offered. He smiles, nodding slowly.

Magic, dude. Awesome.

* * *

Stiles stays with Brendan's (you know, the rude pushy beta who soon becomes his closet friend) pack for the next two years while completing his courses. They introduce him to their emissary, a lively woman who owns a second-hand bookstore and has her own workshop on top of it.

She teaches him control, to access his spark and use it, make himself a weapon. He trains with weapons as well, knives, bow and arrow, guns. He gets tattoos, runes to access and give him power, help him focus his energies, sharpen his reflexes. He becomes stronger, his spark burning into a bright flame.

Stiles is accepted into the pack after the first few training sessions, trusted and respected for his powers in a way he never was back in Beacon Hills. He's called upon to help them and soon, others from different packs as well. Knowledge of his skills, both investigative and magic wise, becomes widely known, and Stiles revels in it.

He is called upon to help out other supernaturals all around the world. The things he was once most afraid of, that haunted his nightmares, now feared him. He helps disputes, solves cases supernatural and normal.

The pack becomes his family away from his dad, and he finds hope with them, a hope for a better life not tainted with the mistakes from the past.

Of course, it all comes crashing down when he opens his phone late at night after an exhausting flight from Australia to see a message blinking on his screen from his father. He opens it, sees the two words 'call me' shining out at him, and panics.

His father picks up on the first ring, and says four words Stiles would never ignore.

"I need your help."

 

* * *

The plane lands, and it's raining. Small trickles of water run down the window, and Stiles runs his finger along them, tracing the lines webbing out. The seatbelt sign flicks off and he stands, picking up his hand luggage and shuffling down the aisle behind the families and men and women in business suits. 

Once of the plane, he makes his way to pick up his luggage, then wanders over to the pickup zone. He spots his father immediately, though he doesn't seem to recognize Stiles. He smiles, the movement pulling on the piercing in his lip, and walks over to his father.

He sees the moment that the sheriff realises where he is, as he breaks out into a small, sad smile, and comes up to hug Stiles.

"I missed you kiddo," he says into Stiles shirt, and Stiles feels guilty, because it's his fault they haven't seen each other in so long.

"I know," Stiles mummers, pulling tighter against his father, before moving back and hefting his bag further up his shoulders.

"We better get going," the sherrif says, leading Stiles along to his car, and opening the boot so Stiles can throw in his luggage.

"So, what's the latest big bad that you'd need me here?" Stiles questioned, hands flexing around the strap of bag at his feet.

"It's an alpha pack," his dad says, mouth set in a heavy frown.

"Shit."

* * *

The rest of the drive home was silent, each of them stuck in their own thoughts. Stiles looked up to see the beaten sign indicating their entrance into Beacon Hills, a cheery 'Welcome to Beacon Hills! Enjoy your stay!' standing out in fading yellow paint.

He grimaces, looking down and fiddling with the ends of his hoodie until they reach his fathers' house. It looks old, uncared for, and Stiles frowns, opening the front door.

The hallway is the same, all the photos filled with smiling faces staring back at him, and Stiles looks away, making his way up the stairs to him bedroom.

His room is still the same from when he left. All the comics, random knickknacks gathered on the edges of stuffed bookshelves, they're all there 

He quickly puts his bags on the ground, sweeping the stuff of his study desk, and sits down. He rests his head in his hands, breathing in deeply. He stands up again, stretching out his sore limbs, and picks up the smaller bags, taking out a few vials.

He glances over the contents, noting in his head the things missing that he'd need to do the tracking spell, just to get an idea of what they're dealing with.

He jots down the ingredients on a spare sheet of paper littering the floor next to the desk, movements slow and lazy. Stiles rubs his eyes, yawning, before chucking the list to the side. He strips down to his underwear, clothes strewn around the room, and places his glasses on the bedside table.

He gives a moment thought towards the long day tomorrow is sure to be, but knows there's fuck all he can do about it

Stiles rubs at his eyes again, before tracing his hand down the scar on his face. He grimaces, feeling the damaged skin bunch up. He sighs, moving to lay back against the bed, letting his mind go blank.

There's a lot to worry about, but for now, sleep. Flying takes a lot out of him.

He's asleep before he hits the pillow.

* * *

His phone blaring is what wakes Stiles up next morning, and he swings his arm out blindly, patting down for the phone.

He opens his phone, groaning, and lets out a muffled "yeah?"

Stiles' dad, on the other end of the phone, laughs. "Good to know some things never change," he chuckles. "Just letting you know I'm at the station, so let yourself out and get to work. I also suggest you see Derek."

Stiles wakes up at the last sentence, and hits his head with the palm of his empty hand. "Do I have to?" he moans.

"You're working with him, Stiles. He was the one who asked for you here." That's news to Stiles, and he glares accusingly at his phone.

"Why didn't you tell-" Stiles is cut off by his dad, speaking quickly into his phone.

"Whoops, got to go, talk later. Bye!"

Stiles sighs, and heaves himself out of bed and over to his bag, pulling out a three-quarter sleeved shirt and skinny jeans. He puts them on, yawning.

He picks up his bag and the list he wrote himself last night of stuff he needs from the next town over. He trudges down the stairs, sighing. Resigning to his fate, he texts his father, asking for the location of the pack house. The response comes back almost straight away, and he heaves another sigh, pulling out of the parking spot in his old jeep and out onto the road.

Firsts things first though. Coffee.

* * *

Stiles pulls into the first coffee shop he sees, parking his beaten jeep in the crowded parking lot. The smell of coffee is overpowering even from outside.

He enters the cafe, a little bell at the top of the door announcing his arrival, though it goes unheard in the bustling shop. He lines up in the que, fingers flicking through foreign cash clogging his wallet, until he finds some of the right currency, taking a few steps forward in line every minute or so.

When he gets to the front of the line, he hears something crash, and looks up, a small smirk forming when he recognizes the blonde in front of him. Erica is standing behind the counter, wearing a black t-shirt with a little coffee logo imprinted on the left hand side, staring at him as if she's seen a ghost.

She looks over him, taking in the tight clothes clinging to his lean but muscular body, the ink of the [tattoos](http://th06.deviantart.net/fs71/PRE/i/2014/106/1/9/nightmares__art__teen_wolf___stiles_stilinski__by_lhmccoy-d7es3w1.jpg) visible on his arms not covered by the sleeves. She stares at the scars not covered by the strange tattooed symbols, before travelling up to look at his face. Stiles' hair was longer, a pair of thick framed black glasses slid behind his ears. She takes in the white scar lining the left side of his face, the piercing in his lip, making up the mouth that's shaped in a dangerous smirk, and the honey brown eyes alight with magic. She blinks a few times, as if trying to remove an eyelash from her eye, before taking in a hesitant breath.

"Stiles?" she whispers, and Stiles hears the sound of chairs scraping to the side. He sees in the corner of his eye Lydia and Isaac walking over slowly, as if afraid Stiles would run off if they moved too quickly. 

Stiles ignores them, turning his head to look up at the menu, moving his head to the side as if taking in the different choices. One of them clears their throat, and Stiles glances over at them, eyes dancing with secrets and tongue fiddling with the ring in his lip. His face takes on a surprised look, as if just noticing them for the first time, and smiles, bitter at the edges.

“Oh, hey guys. Long time no see, eh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this alpha pack will be similar to season 3 but will not follow the plot of season 3. Also, I might end up changing from the alpha pack to a different enemy altogether, but the alpha pack was all I could come up with on short notice. Any suggestions shoot me a comment. Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand apologies for the lateness of this chapter. Exams and study and work just killed any time and motivation I had to write. Hopefully with exams almost over chapters will come a lot more frequently.  
> And thankyou for the continued comments and kudos. Your feedback and comments make me ver happy.  
> Shout out to Maddie for reading it for me preposting:)  
> Unbeta'd as always, enjoy C:

_"Oh hey guys. Long time no see, eh?"_

The others stare at him as if he had grown another head. Stiles flicks his eyes over them, before turning back to face the counter, eyes wondering over the menu board. He slides some money across the counter, and Erica looks at him in shock.

"Black coffee. Large. No sugar." Erica just stares at him. Stiles rolls his eyes, sighing, and gestures at the slowly growing line behind him.

"Any time now, Erica. I'll be at Derek's later. You can gawk all you like there." Stiles watches as Erica shakes her head as if snapping out of a trance. She mechanically takes the money and gives him his change, handing the large cup over to have the coffee made.

Stiles moves along to the end of the counter to the pickup area, feeling Lydia and Isaac's eyes piercing through the side of him. He smothers a sigh, and turning his back to them. When his name is called out by one of the workers to collect his coffee, he takes it with a thanks, and walks to the door. He turns back around, and seeing three sets of eyes on him, winks, before exiting the door and going to sit back in his jeep.

He's sitting in the car, coffee placed in the holder, when he realises his hands are shaking. He raises the cup and takes a sip, swallowing the scalding liquid, before starting the car and reversing out of the parking lot.

He drives out onto the main road, hands white from clutching the steering wheel, breath coming short. He parks in a petrol station a mile up from the coffee shop when his vision starts going foggy, not enough oxygen filling his lungs.

Seeing the pack again trigger memories long ago suppressed. He claws at his face, as if trying to scratch away the thoughts, but they come rushing back as if no time had passed.

Images spill through his mind, pain and fear and blood. He didn't realise how much power his torture still had over him, and it scares him. He can feel the phantom sting of the knife slicing through his arm, the smell of his flesh burning on the air. He clenches his eyes closed, willing the memories back.

Everything rushes back, and he see it, _feel_ it, and he can't breath, please help, _godplease_ _helpmehelp._

It takes a few minutes for him to get the panic attack under control, to realise he's safe. He runs a shaky hand through his hair, eyes slowly opening to burning light.

He stares down at his hands, noting the red slowly fade from his tattoos as he gets his breathe under control. He grimaces, flexing his hands, before pushing back his glasses. Stiles takes in a deep breath, before restarting the car and setting on driving the hour over to the next town.

God knows he's going to need the time to prepare seeing the whole pack.

* * *

 

A bell rings as Stiles opens the door, the smell of herbs hitting him full force. He smiles, taking in the familiar scent, instantly reminded of England.

He moves around the store, pulling the list he wrote himself from his back pocket and reading it over. With all his ingredients found, he takes them to the register, striking up a conversation with the old Wiccan minding the till as she rings up his purchases.

Items heavy in hand, he makes his way back to the car. He revises the spell on the drive back to his fathers' house, glad that he's only going to need to do this once. He hates magic that needs ingredients, finds them unreliable.

Once in the house, he goes to his fathers' office, taking from it one of the large maps of Beacon Hills. He spreads it out on the lounge room floor, all the furniture pushed to the side, before taking a beaten wooden bowl from his bag and mixing the new ingredients in it.

He pulls his shirt off and sits down in front of the map. Bowl held in front of him, he closes his eyes, going over the words once last time, before taking a deep breath.

His eyes once open are covered in an inky black film, and his voice takes on a low tone as he starts chanting. His tattoos light up, burning red and moving around on his skin.

Slowly, he tips the bowls' contents onto the map, watching as it sinks in and disappears, only to reform as different coloured spots spattered over the page.

When the map settles, Stiles stands up, pulling his shirt back over the still writhing tattoos, and takes the map into his old bedroom. He stares at the six red dots on the page, 5 clustered together in the rundown section of Beacon Hills, and one separate, with one blue dot moving next to it.

Stiles sweeps up the map with a groan, folding it up and stuffing it in his back, before making his way down the stairs again and climbing back in his jeep. He pulls out his phone, reading off the address of Derek's apartment. Groaning again, just because he can, he starts up the car and makes his way over to face the Alpha.

* * *

 

The apartment building Stiles pulls up to is not at all what he was expecting. Stiles stares up at the modest six story complex, complete with a pristine lobby leading to a set of elevators, before walking over slowly to the door.

He steps into the lobby, smiling at the twenty-something year-old woman sitting at the desk, staring at his face, or more specifically, the scar lining the left side of it. 

"I'm just here to see Derek. He said I could go right up," he lies, hands tucked into his pockets, smiling thanks at her when she distractedly tells him to head on up.

He can't stop fidgeting in the elevator, hands clenched together, eyes closed. The elevator dings at the fourth floor and the door open. He stares out at the carpeted hallway leading up to 4a, having to quickly press his hand out to stop the elevators from closing again after standing there for a minute.

He steps out, listening to the doors close behind him, before walking over to the apartment and knocking 3 times on the door.

He hears someone shout, and another person heave a heavy sigh, before walking over and opening the door.

Stiles stands up a little straighter when he sees the door handle turn, staring straight at the face that is revealed.

Derek's rugged face stares back at his, bags heavy under his eyes, 3 days worth of beard unshaved. He looks confused for a second, before realising who it is at his door.

Stiles smiles, all teeth, and sees the slight shiver that goes through Derek, who's still staring at him. "Hale. Heard you called?"

Derek nods slightly, still distracted at seeing Stiles after 3 years, even though he knew he was coming over.

"Stiles. You look.." Derek trails off, before shaking his head slightly and moving to the side, inviting Stiles in. 

Stiles walks past him into an open kitchen and dining room area, the room painted in biege. Isaac is sitting of to the side at the dining table, watching Stiles as he enters. 

Stiles raises an eyebrow at the decor, turning back to Derek. "I'm impressed. This is miles above your old living standards."

He walks over to the table, ignoring the looks Derek and Isaac are sending each-other, and spreads out the map. He wants to get out as fast as possible.

He points to the red dots clustered on the map. "Here's where they're staying. There's five of them here, and unless there are more of them outside of Beacon Hills, that's how many you're going to have to deal with."

He stands back up, hand pushing his glasses up habitually. He watches them as they stare at the map, faces pale. Stiles looks over them as they watch the red dots, taking in the signs of wear present on them. He sighs, tapping his fingers against his thigh, before clearing his throat and looking at Derek

"I'm going to help you get rid of them, but that's it. I don't want any of your pack coming near me, werewolf or not. Are we clear?" Stiles asks, taking a sick sort of pleasure in how Isaac looks to the floor at that. When Derek nods, expression resigned, Stiles turns to face the door, moving a few steps towards it.

"Stiles," Derek starts, reaching out to grab his arm. He pulls his hand back when Stiles flinches slightly and turns around, a look of guilt passing over his face. "Thank you."

"It's not for you," Stiles states, looking him in the eye, before turning back around and exiting the apartment, the door closing behind him with a thud.

* * *

Stiles spends the ride back to his old house humming the top 100 playing on the radio. The loud music distracts him, stopping him from thinking about just what he's gotten himself into coming back.

He parks his car in the empty driveway, the engine cutting out and everything going silent. He opens his door, reaching around to grab his bag, when something hits him across the back of the head.

He forwards, head smacking against the gear stick with the force of the strike. He feels a trickle of something run down his neck (please don't let it be blood, Goddamn it I think it is), and everything starts fading out.

He hears the passenger door open, though it sounds muffled and far away, hands reaching towards him. Stiles lets out a moan, vision going spotty, when the something grabs his shirt and yanks him forward.

Something hits him in the back of the head again, and he slumps forward. The last thought he has before black takes over his vision is ' _please, not again'._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy jeez I'm so sorry for how long this has taken. I've been sad and sick and just generally unpleasant to be around. But wow, over 500 kudos. You guys rock and I so don't deserve it after making you wait so long. So yes, here is the chapter, and with exams over in a month or so, updates should be more frequent. As always, unbeta'd, and I hope you enjoy!

Stiles wakes up to a painful ache in his wrists and a shivering sense of wrong running down his spine. There's blood caking his hair, and Stiles can tell his left eye is swollen.

He pushes open his eyes, grimacing at the harsh light that pours against them. The ropes binding his arms to the wall above his head only give him the smallest relief against his hands, leaving him standing in his toes.

Stiles moves his head slightly, trying to make out his surroundings from his position against the wall. His heart sinks when he notices a small trail of blue powder around him, his headache growing tenfold.

The powder, a rare mixture herbs designed to block a persons access to their spark, explains why he's not healing. Every small twitch he makes sends a wave of pain through his body, and it's familiar in the worst kind of way.

He closes his eyes again, breathing slowly through his nose, trying desperately to keep calm. Each breath he takes gets him a step closer, mind numbing, until he picks up light footsteps outside the room 

Seconds after, the door opens, and two people enter. The male, probably in his late thirties, has a pair of black shades on, a cane held tightly in his hands. Following behind him, already half shifted, was a female alpha, eyes blood red and fangs crowding her mouth. 

Stiles stares, heart rate picking up, and the female laughs, the sound distorted and guttural. The man moves closer to Stiles, stopping a foot before the blue powered line. He leans down slowly, deliberately, to run his hand along the edge of the line, before standing up and facing Stiles.

"Funny, don't you think," he starts, his accent prominent in every word, "that despite all the running you've done, all the power you've gained, you're right back where you started."

Stiles glares at the ground, aching to reach his spark. The man smiles at his silence, turning around to face the door. He paces slowly, before moving back in front of Stiles.

"I have to say, it's such a shame to waste such potential. You're playing for the wrong team," he drawls, raising an eyebrow when Stiles throws himself at him, hands still locked in the chains. He lets out a hiss of pain when they keep him back. The alphas laugh, and he snarls at them, feral with anger.

"When I get out of here," he spits, eyes bright, "I'm going to make you regret ever coming to Beacon Hills."

"Yes, but Stiles, that's the thing. You're never going to escape. In fact, I doubt you'll make it through the day," the man says, red eyes shining through the black of his glasses. He slowly changes, nails shifting to claws, and puts his cane onto the floor by the powder. He raises his hand up to Stiles face and runs a claw against the deep scar, the movement drawing small welts of blood to form.

Stiles bares his teeth at him, eyes locked onto the alpha. The alpha then motions to the side, and the female comes up, a malicious hunger alight in her eyes.

"Do what you want, Kali," the man says to her, voice low. "Just remember to leave enough for the rest to play with."

She watches him leave, before turning back to Stiles. She smiles and raises her hand, swiping it across Stiles' chest before he even knows what's happening. He lets out a small pained gasp, and tries not to look down at the deep claw marks already weeping red. 

Kali strikes out again, this time into the meat of his thigh, barely giving Stiles the time to process the wounds. Stiles bites his lip to stop himself from crying out.

His blood slowly flows down his leg, some catching on the ruined tatters of his jeans, and drips off the edge of his shoe and onto the floor. A small pile forms, moving closer and closer to the blue powder blocking him from escaping. He stares at it, willing it to grow.

"That all you got?" Stiles asks, voice strained, but it has the desired effect. Kali growls and lowers herself to drags her claws down the side of his leg, blood welling and joining the already present stream falling onto the ground. The pool inches closer, until slowly, it reaches the powder, dissolving it until a small gap splits the circle. It's all it takes though, and he breathes in deeply, ignoring the growing pain as he feels his magic coming back to him, a slow trickle that amps up till his skin is alive with it.

He doesn't waste any time, closing his eyes and using the last of his quickly draining energy to focuses on the first location that comes to mind. The unnatural pull of his skin that comes with teleporting is the only thing that lets him know it worked, and he drags his eyes open to see the beige walls of Derek's apartment.

It's so sudden that no-one realizes he's there for a few seconds. He hears more than sees when the others do notice him, though. The strong metallic smell of blood is thick in the air, and everything quickly falls silent. Stiles slips to his knees, hands pressed against the deepest of the marks against his chest, and lets out a small, pained whimper.

"I-," he starts, eyes still covered in black, before cutting off and falling forward. He passes out before his head his the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo yay. Wasn't that bad, right? Also sorry it's short, but I typed this in one sitting so yeah.  
> And because I love to waste time, I got tumblr again (who even needs sleep?), so feel free to say hi, I'm alphaplease (original right?)  
> Also please note, this is not complete yet. I know I haven't updated in forever, but I do plan on finishing this fic, as well as the million others I have half finished on my computer.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for new chapters. I have the majority of the rest of the story planned out in my head, which makes it 500x easier to type, and I'll have an estimated chapter amount up by next update (hopefully).  
> Thanks for the kudos and comments, you make my day :)

There is no beeping when Stiles wakes up this time; only the heavy breathing of the person sitting across the bed he is lying on. It’s all incredibly familiar.  
  
He opens his eyes, the room slowly coming into focus. He’s not sure where he is, not sure what lead him to be here, until he tries to sit up and gets a red-hot flare of pain from his chest. He lets out a small gasp, which alerts the person on the other side of the bed, who’s up in a second, arm reaching out to help.  
  
“Don’t,” Stiles murmurs, putting his arms either side of himself to pull himself up into a sitting position. The movement causes pain to shoot through his body, though Stiles knows the wounds are almost healed.  
  
Stiles turns his head to look at the person, and it’s Derek. Derek stares back, concern barely hidden on his face. Stiles rolls his eyes, slowly moving the blankets to check his stomach. The wounds, as he suspected, are all but healed, red puffy skin lining the red-white scars arching across his chest and abdomen.  
  
“How long was I out for?” Stiles asks, not bothering to look up. He frowns at the marks, which have cut through the phoenix tattoo branding his chest.  
  
“About a day,” Derek responds, eyes glued to the ink etched into Stiles’ skin. Stiles nods, not really paying attention to the answer.  
  
“I was lucky I got out. They didn’t want me for information. They didn’t want to hurt your pack. They just wanted to get me out the picture.”  
  
“The alphas.” Derek states. Stiles nods, though it’s not a question, shifting the blankets to look at the damage to his legs. They’re healed further than his chest, the wounds more plentiful but shallow. He runs a hand over them, a black film covering his eyes as the claw marks on his leg seemingly melt into his skin and disappear, leaving only faint white lines in their place.  
  
Stiles’ hands are shaking when he pulls them back up. Despite sleeping for a day, he’s exhausted, and it hits him all at once just how close he was to dying, how he let his guard down for only a few minutes and it almost cost him his life.

‘Stiles?” Derek asks loudly, looking at him questioningly, and Stiles realises he must of said his name a few times.

“I’m fine,” he replies, hand coming up to wipe at the small beads of sweat gathering on his forehead. He runs a hand through his tangled strands of hair, fingers catching at the knots.

Derek sends him a pointed look, and Stiles looks back down at his lap, fingers curling up in the sheets.

“Okay, no, I’m not fine. What do you expect? I almost died, Derek. Again. I should have never come back to this town.”

“Stiles-,” Derek starts, but Stiles cuts him off, continuing as if Derek hadn’t spoken.

“I still have nightmares, you know? Every time I close my eyes I’m back in that room. I can’t stand to look in the mirror to see what they did to me, the scars a constant reminder of how I’ll never heal. And the fact that I spent so long trying to get away, trying to heal and learn how to fight and defend myself, all to have that taken away from me by a line of ash? It scares me, Derek. It fucking terrifies me.”

Stiles closes his mouth with an audible click and a grimace, wishing he could take back the words he just said. Derek looks at him sadly, his hands clutched together in a tight grip.

“We did try, Stiles. I did try,” Derek whispers, head down. “I know we were too late, but you don’t realise how much you meant to this pack, to me. How much you still do mean.”

Stiles glares at him, shaking his head. “Not now, Derek. I can’t deal with this now.”

Derek looks up at him, and something must have shown on Stiles face, because he nods slowly. He walks over and picks up a glass of water of the dresser, passing it to Stiles, who skulls the water in a few seconds.

Derek stares at the door, waiting for Stiles to start talking miles a minute like he used to. Stiles, however, seems off in his own world, a look of concentration on his face.

“We have to stop them, now,” Stiles says suddenly, breaking the silence, and Derek raises an eyebrow at him, as if saying ‘no shit’.

Stiles almost smiles, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. He places the empty glass on the nightstand beside him before sliding slowly off the bed to his feet. He frowns slightly as he puts weight on his injured leg, stretching it out before taking a few steps foreword

“Derek,” Stiles starts, moving slowly across the room. “Tell me, have you ever heard of a lunar ellipse?” He moves right up to the door and turns to face Derek with a feral grin, eyes dancing with the promise of revenge.

Derek nods, staring at the man in front of him. He wonders not for the first time when this dangerous stranger took the place of the hyperactive, fragile boy, and when he started missing the old Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a Stiles and Derek scene, amiright? I'll be delving more into Stiles and Derek and the pack in the later chapters, so hold onto your hats, it's going to be a bumpy ride (I had to say that I'm lame okay)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Nightmares: Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1477621) by [alphaplease](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphaplease/pseuds/alphaplease)




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